I Dream Of Your Life
by cityofmist
Summary: 'He, of all people, should know by now that some things can't heal.' Erik can't wear the helmet 24/7, and, a week or so post-First Class, Charles takes his opportunity. Title from Candlebox's Miss You.


Charles wakes up in his bed in Westchester, and knows, immediately, that Erik has taken off the helmet. Even through his half-consciousness and the painkiller haze, even so far away with millions of minds between them, the bright point of Erik's mind flickering back into its rightful place in the universe (currently some impersonal hotel room in Virginia) is utterly unmissable.

The first second or so is a wonderful, dizzy, familiar rush of _oh God, Erik_, as Charles submerges himself in a mind he's been desperate to touch since Erik first put on that helmet and disappeared from view, and then Erik realises what's happening. His relatively clear mind (relaxed by a shower, a change of clothes and a glass of Scotch) swirls into chaotic emotion, like ink curling through water: there's hope and surprise and a bright thread of affection, but all of them are choked in the dark currents of guilt, shock, fear. And what's painful to Charles is that it's real, it's all real; it's been a week since they last spoke and Erik is _genuinely _afraid of him.

A flash of _block him _in Erik's mind, and then the tangle of Erik's emotion is gone, or, at least, hidden; Erik buries them under himself and Charles playing chess in the library, before it all ended. The tang of alcohol on his tongue, the branching strategies of the game, Charles' wide, sincere blue eyes. The memories are more vivid than most that Charles sees, and they fill Erik's surface thoughts, neatly covering anything Erik doesn't want Charles to find.

He could reach a little deeper into Erik's mind, without much difficulty, and find whatever he wanted. Erik's location. Erik's plans. He won't do it; it hurts that Erik distrusts him enough to hide these things in the first place, and Charles _can't_ give him more reason. Charles looks at Erik's memories of _before_, when they talked about the differences that created this gulf between them as though they were incidental, and waits.

_What are you doing, Charles. _The thought is loud and defined, clearly directed, and it doesn't sound quite like Erik - Charles supposes that this is the way Erik hears his own voice - but it's close enough to hurt. Some of Erik's thoughts filter through the overlay he's doggedly projecting: the edge of an image, a curved, metallic sheen -

_Please don't put on the helmet_, Charles projects desperately into Erik's mind, _please don't. This is the first time that you've taken it off since I woke up, and I - _missed you, he wants to say, but at _woke up_ a current of guilt and worry spikes through Erik's carefully constructed defence.

_Charles, are you, what did I - ? _

Charles seriously considers lying for a moment - _I'm fine, I'm going to be fine_, and he could reinforce it with a wave of truth which would make Erik believe anything, and maybe things could go back to as they were - but he fights the temptation and, rather than having to construct sentences around it himself, put together his own words to describe what he's lost, he just sends Erik the appropriate memories of the last week in one rough push. The doctor who explained to him, very slowly and very carefully, where the bullet had hit him, and what it meant. Alex bringing the wheelchair Hank built up to his room, because Hank hadn't wanted to see Charles' face when he saw it for the first time. Sitting in the chair for the first time, and the _finality _that slammed into him like a coffin lid closing: I am never going to stand up.

Erik's self-control wavers, but doesn't break: _chess chess chess_, he thinks resolutely; his memory of Charles leaning forward to slide his king out of check blurs and distorts under the weight of revelation and blame. _Oh, God, Charles_, his thoughts are scarlet-hot and raw to the touch, _I am…You'll never…_

_No_, which is all Charles trusts himself to say.

_If I could go back_, Erik thinks quietly. _Charles, if I could go back…_

_Then _come _back,_ Charles thinks, but doesn't send to Erik. He, of all people, should know by now that some things can't heal.

He sends Erik an abrupt, wordless goodbye, and breaks contact. He doesn't say what he really wanted to, all along, which is: _If I could go back, before I met you, I would do it all again._


End file.
